


Bacardi

by renegade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, First Time, M/M, Oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renegade/pseuds/renegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras isn't good at math and it drives him to drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bacardi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wigs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Wigs).



> My friend [Wigs](http://juanjoltaire.tumblr.com/) gave me the prompt in which Enjolras has a shitty day and begs Grantaire to get him drunk and they make out. And then this happened.
> 
> Title is sorta from Nada Surf's song "Bacardi"
> 
> (Alternate title: Damn You Look Good And I'm Drunk)

Enjolras, for all the times he's nearly physically _fought_ teachers while debating in class, has never actually failed any classes. He's always been a good student in that regard. He's smart and a good writer and a good researcher. History and all its branches has always been his best subject. He was good at English and got an A for effort (actually, it was a solid B) in art, and even science didn't hold him back.

But _math_. He knows it's such a cliché, for someone to suck at math, but he doesn't get it. Basic math and algebra, he gets. He can prove a triangle is a fucking triangle—begrudgingly, but he'll do it. He managed to scrape by with passing grades all through high school, and then came college. He put off taking his general education math requirement for as long as possible, but he couldn't graduate without it, so in addition to a couple bullshit classes he needed for more units, he finally takes the easiest possible math offered, at least according to Combeferre and Joly, who had taken every science and math class under the sun.

With resources (see: Combeferre and Joly) like his, Enjolras shouldn't have struggled so much. They explained to him how it worked many times, but every time they did, it was like they were speaking gibberish. He tried to stay on top of the daily homework and he really tried to learn it, but it frustrated him that it just wouldn't stick. He hoped he never needed math later in life because he'd be absolutely screwed.

It's not really a surprise, but it's still a definite disappointment, when he gets his midterm back with a red D- circled on the top of the paper. He sinks down in his chair before stuffing the wretched test into his backpack and getting up. His first instinct is to go to Combeferre, but he'll just try to explain the stupid problems as if it were obvious. His second instinct is to go to Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac is _good_ at math and he'd probably do the same thing Combeferre would.

 _After_ he finds someone to vent to, he'll go to them for tutoring. But right now he's just frustrated and wants to yell about how general education requirements are stupid and a waste of everyone's time and money and probably just a scheme to further suck the life out of millennials. 

So he goes to Grantaire.

Enjolras has a plan. He is going to drink because failing a class is a perfectly good reason to drink. And Grantaire is an expert drinker. If he could major in drinking, he probably would and graduate top of the class. And Grantaire is a good listener. He's annoying and sometimes goads Enjolras into arguing and Enjolras almost always falls for it, but it's not like they hate each other or anything.

Or at least, Enjolras hopes not because he's at his apartment that is right off campus. Grantaire isn't a student, at least not anymore, but he still lives with a bunch of them and sometimes buys booze for freshmen for a fee. It's genius and stupid all at the same time.

Enjolras knocks on the door, waits a few moments, and then knocks again.

“Christ, I'm coming, hold your horses—Enjolras?” Grantaire says as he opens the door. “Did I forget something at the Musain the other night?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “Do you have alcohol?”

Grantaire snorts a laugh. “Oh god, you sound five when you say that,” he says between snickers.

“I'm serious.”

“Yes, my child, I have alcohol,” Grantaire teases. “Come on in.”

He opens the door wide for Enjolras, who just steps in slowly and looks around. He's only been to Grantaire's place a handful of times, all to return something he'd left at a meeting: a jacket, a scarf, his sketchbook, his _phone_. If Enjolras didn't know any better, he'd say it was a ploy to get him to come over.

“So what brings you over prowling for alcohol in the middle of the day?”

“I'm not prowling. And I did badly on a test and I need you to get me drunk,” Enjolras says, dropping his bag on the floor.

Grantaire gapes at him. “Get you—what?” he asks. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why not?” Enjolras tries really hard not to sound petulant.

“Because drinking your problems away never works. Trust me,” Grantaire says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I want to get drunk.” Enjolras will _not_ stomp his foot and cross his arms.

“Christ—fine. Have you ever even drank before?” Grantaire asks, leading him into the kitchen.

“I've had a glass of wine or two with dinner a couple of times,” Enjolras shrugs. “Does that count?”

“No, definitely not,” Grantaire sighs. “Okay, so you're a virgin—” Enjolras blushes furiously and Grantaire raises an eyebrow, “—and I don't want to fuck you up forever, so we'll do something easy.”

Enjolras shakes his head furiously. “No. I want to get drunk. Vodka? Tequila? What gets you the drunkest?”

Grantaire lets out a low whistle. “It's not my fault when you're in absolute misery tomorrow. Or even later tonight,” he finally says, pulling out a half-full bottle of Bacardi. He grabs a couple of shot glasses out of the cabinets and sets them on the table. “Sit.”

Enjolras sits. Grantaire pours the first shots, one for Enjolras and one for himself. Enjolras picks his up and Grantaire clinks their glasses together. “Bottoms up,” is all he says before taking the shot.

Enjolras takes a deep, calming breath and mimics Grantaire.

It tastes _awful_. Enjolras has to stifle a gag once he swallows. He grimaces. Grantaire laughs at him and pours him another shot. That one goes down smoother than the last. Grantaire doesn't pour a third shot and gives Enjolras some water instead before moving them to the living room.

The third shot comes a few minutes later, and this time he takes it in time with Grantaire. The fourth shot he pours himself. He drinks directly from the bottle for the fifth shot. Grantaire wrestles the bottle from his hands and spills some of it on Enjolras' shirt. Enjolras feels warm and a little tingly, and maybe a little nauseated under it all, but other than that, he feels good. He gets why people drink when they're sad. Of course, this won't be a pattern, but for a moment, he forgets about math and midterms and feeling inadequate.

“So what's bothering you, almighty Apollo?” Grantaire asks and Enjolras falls back to earth with a loud thud. Or maybe he just fell off the couch. “Okay, you're officially cut off,” Grantaire says, pulling him back up and plopping him back down on the couch.

“I failed my midterm,” Enjolras sighs. “I'm probably going to fail the final, fail the entire class, and then have to retake it. I can't do it again.”

“I've never heard of you getting less than a B on anything,” Grantaire says, drinking directly from the bottle. He pulls it away from his lips and wipes his mouth on his arm, stretching the hand that's holding the bottle away from Enjolras when he reaches for it. “What class is this?”

Enjolras whines when Grantaire won't let him drink anymore. He doesn't feel drunk enough. “It's a math class,” he admits.

“Oh,” is all Grantaire says. He brings his arm back and hands the bottle to Enjolras. “I fucking hate math. I'm awful at it.”

Enjolras lets out a relieved sigh. “Finally, someone who understands! I'm surrounded by math geniuses and they try to explain it to me in the simplest way possible, but they may as well be speaking Mandarin or something because none of it makes sense to me.”

Grantaire laughs and shakes his head, taking the Bacardi back from Enjolras to take a swig. “It's stupid. It's not like I'm ever going to need half of it,” he agrees. “My father hated the fact that I was bad at math. It doesn't come naturally to some people. He used to—never mind.”

“What?” Enjolras asks. He nudges Grantaire. The movement causes him to lose balance and he leans against Grantaire. He's warm and sturdy and smells like he took a shower and then smoked a cigarette. “He used to what?”

“Never mind, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He lifts an arm and puts it around Enjolras' shoulders. His hand finds its way into his curls and Enjolras sighs at the feeling. It's relaxing. Grantaire must notice, because he begins massaging his fingers into his scalp.

“Mm,” Enjolras hums. “Keep doing that. It feels good.”

“When was the last time you relaxed, Apollo?” Grantaire asks, continuing to move his fingers in Enjolras' unruly hair.

“Right now,” Enjolras breathes before he even thinks about it. His brain-to-mouth filter is malfunctioning. He closes his eyes, jaw going slack as Grantaire moves them around so he's sitting length-wise on the couch. Grantaire kneels behind him and digs his thumbs into his shoulders.

Enjolras lets out an involuntary moan when Grantaire unknots a particularly tense area. He's drunk, he knows he is, and he cannot be held accountable for what comes out of his mouth. Or the fact that his jeans are actually a little tight. He feels himself blush, mixing hotly with the flush of the alcohol already on his cheeks. Enjolras is glad that Grantaire can't see his face.

Grantaire is moving his hands lower to Enjolras' waist. He can feel his breath, hot and humid, against the back of his neck.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes.

“Yeah?” Grantaire murmurs into his hair.

“Kiss me.”

Grantaire chuckles into his hair. “Mm, Apollo, you're drunk,” he says quietly and noses his curls a little.

“I know I am,” Enjolras says, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Please.”

Grantaire, apparently, doesn't need to be told twice. He turns Enjolras in his arms, strong hands still on his waist, and pulls him flush against his body. They kiss, nose and teeth clashing together awkwardly. Enjolras isn't sure what to do with his tongue, but Grantaire's is pressing against the seam of his lips, and Enjolras opens his mouth willingly.

Truth be told, Enjolras has never been kissed, not like this. Stupid spin the bottle games in high school were just pecks on the lips, seven minutes in heaven were seven minutes awkwardly sitting in a closet, and anything after that were kisses on the cheek or the forehead. He's never been kissed like this. He's never had anyone hold him close and kiss him like their lives depended on it.

Grantaire cups his face with his hands, pushing his body forward so Enjolras falls back against the arm of the couch. Grantaire quickly straddles him, hands still cradling his cheeks. Enjolras flails for a moment, unsure of what to do with his hands before settling them on Grantaire's waist. He sees Grantaire a lot at meetings and on campus, and he always says hi and always has some sort of mocking or teasing comment to say to Enjolras. But Enjolras has never thought about Grantaire like this, on top of him, determinedly pushing his tongue into his mouth, and thumbing at his cheekbones.

Enjolras hazards opening his eyes. Grantaire's are closed, brows furrowed as if he's concentrating hard on kissing. Eventually, he has to come up for air, and Enjolras takes a deep, gasping breath.

“How was that for a kiss?” Grantaire says with a lazy smirk. His eyes are glossed over and bright from alcohol. Enjolras hiccups.

“I mean, it was good, but I have nothing to compare it to—”

“Oh good christ, you've never been kissed before?” Grantaire says, and as if he's making up for lost time, he presses his mouth hard against Enjolras'. Enjolras holds tighter onto Grantaire's hips. Without his permission, his hips roll up to meet Grantaire's.

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes. He's never really had a sexual experience—it wasn't for a lack of interest, just a lack of time. And, to be honest, he's oblivious to flirting. Any sexual experiences he could have had before this moment were probably foiled by his own lack of awareness.

But, he's glad it's Grantaire who is giving him his first experience. He _knows_ Grantaire—maybe not well, but he can trust him to a certain extent and he seems like he knows what he's doing.

When Grantaire's hips move down against his, Enjolras _knows_ Grantaire knows what he's doing. “You like that?” Grantaire murmurs, breathing ragged, into his ear. Enjolras nods dumbly. Grantaire does it again and begins to kiss Enjolras' jaw, down his neck, and on his throat.

Enjolras lets out a whimper. He didn't know he liked having his neck kissed, but he's shivering and trying to move his hips again, but Grantaire has him pinned against the couch with his broad, solid body. Grantaire continues mapping out Enjolras' throat with his mouth. His tongue flicks out, tasting, questioning. Enjolras isn't even sure what the question is, but he nods and moves a hand from Grantaire's waist to his hair. There's suction, suddenly, and Grantaire's mouth is latched to a spot right under his jaw.

He continues this, down, until he reaches the juncture of Enjolras' neck and shoulder. “Can I?” he says, voice rough and thick and the sound of it goes straight to his cock. Enjolras nods as enthusiastically as he can, the movement causing the world to spin for a moment. He almost forgot he was drunk. He grips the couch as he waits for the world to right itself again, and Grantaire is pulling up his shirt. Without thinking about it, Enjolras lifts his arms for him and Grantaire continues his quest of marking Enjolras' pale skin.

Enjolras is squirming now, desperately trying to get friction between all the layers of fabric between them. Grantaire senses this and shifts so his thigh is between Enjolras' legs and without further hesitation, Enjolras rubs himself against his denim-clad thigh.

Grantaire smiles against his shoulder and mimics the movement against Enjolras' own thigh.

Enjolras tugs on Grantaire's hair, making him stop biting his shoulder, and pulls him up to be face-level with him. His pupils are blown, lips red and slightly swollen. Enjolras parts his lips ever so slightly, and then Grantaire's mouth is on him again, lips slotted together, and his tongue finding its way back into Enjolras' mouth.

Their tongues slide together, slick, and Enjolras shifts to get better friction. “Grantaire,” he half-gasps. “I need... I need.”

Grantaire seems to understand and nods. He moves one of his hands—broad palms and long, thick fingers—and presses the heel of his palm against the front of Enjolras' jeans. Enjolras lets out a guttural groan. “I've never,” Enjolras stutters. “I've never—”

“Please don't tell me you haven't _masturbated_ before,” Grantaire breathes against his cheek. The rough stubble of his cheeks scratches his skin.

“I have! Just. Never with another person,” he says in a rush, face feeling hot. Hopefully Grantaire can't tell through the flush of alcohol and arousal.

Grantaire palms his cock through his jeans a little harder. Enjolras' hips twitch. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, eyes still dark and lidded.

Enjolras nods once, barely moving his head, but Grantaire catches the movement and he splays himself on top of Enjolras. They're kissing again, slower this time, but deeper. The hand that isn't rubbing Enjolras finds its way to the back of his head, cradling his skull, as Grantaire kisses him thoroughly.

Grantaire's fingers find the button on Enjolras' jeans and he fumbles to open it, Enjolras still squirming under his body.

“N-no,” Enjolras stutters when Grantaire gets his fly open and he's putting a hand into his boxer-briefs. “Not—only over clothes, please,” he gasps. “I'm sorry—I'm not comfortable—”

“Fuck, yeah. No. It's fine,” Grantaire says. “I can work with that. Are you sure—we don't have to—”

Enjolras tugs on Grantaire's hair as an answer. He may be drunk, but he's aware of what's happening, and he's _ready_. All he needed was liquid courage. He's reaching an age where it's uncomfortable to admit he's never done anything, and _fuck_ the virgin/whore complex and all it stands for, but getting at least some of it over with seems like a good idea. At least, drunk him thinks so.

That's all Grantaire really needs, and he starts palming Enjolras again, the only barrier between them the thin cloth of his boxer-briefs. Enjolras shudders as Grantaire's deft hands work over the outline of his cock, squeezing gently, pressing his thumb against the damp cloth by the head. Enjolras gasps into Grantaire's mouth.

“Apollo—” Grantaire breathes. “You're so—”

“So what?” Enjolras moans again, hips bucking up into Grantaire's hand. He does it again. And again. Until he's rubbing against Grantaire's hand as much as his hand is rubbing him.

“Wonderful. Intoxicating. Smart. You're so smart,” Grantaire babbles. “Smarter than me. Smarter than anyone I know. You could take over the world with your intellect.”

Enjolras groans and bites his lip. He can feel white hot pleasure blooming from his cock, spreading all throughout his body, sparking through his veins and at every synapse.

“Come on, Enjolras, I've got you,” Grantaire murmurs. Enjolras goes taut, coming hard and throughly soaking the cloth of his underwear. Grantaire just moves his hand over Enjolras' softening cock, making his hips stutter and twitch involuntarily.

The world spins once Enjolras has remembered how to open his eyes. Grantaire is still rubbing him, soothingly, and kissing his neck and jaw softly. His stomach lurches, mixing unpleasantly with the lingering tingling he still has from his orgasm.

“Grantaire,” he mumbles, tapping his shoulder. Grantaire bites his neck a little and Enjolras moans and grimaces at the same time. “ _Grantaire_ ,” he says again, insistently.

“Yes?”

“I think I'm going to throw up.”

**Author's Note:**

> At this point I should just start a series of unrelated fics in which Enjolras is under the influence.
> 
> (ask me if I have one in which he eats a pot brownie by accident)
> 
> (Also, this sort of accidentally filled [this](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13488.html?thread=10062000#t10062000) prompt on the kinkmeme, whoops.)


End file.
